


Snowman in the Basement

by LaughWhileCrying



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Fluff, Gen, Sam-Centric, bsgc secret santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 08:32:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2844659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughWhileCrying/pseuds/LaughWhileCrying
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was Christmas Eve and Sam Winchester hated the cold. Thankfully he didn’t have to deal with it alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snowman in the Basement

**Author's Note:**

  * For [beekeepercain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beekeepercain/gifts).



> For Shieldofeden for the BitterSamGirlClub Secrect Santa Exchange. Hope you like it!

Sam Winchester didn’t like the cold.

He never did; even when he was a kid, he would gripe and groan about any weather under 40 degrees Fahrenheit (he went to a school in California for a reason). Snow was fun for a day or two, but trudging to school in it? Having to train for hours in it? Yeah. That part wasn’t as fun.

As an adult, it was even less fun. The cold made Sam uneasy. When it was cold, the frost and ice would sink its claws into his mind, dragging it down into memories that were better left alone. When it was cold, Lucifer’s laughter rang deep and strident in Sam’s ears. (Sam supposed it was better than Lucifer’s singing.)

In recent years, Sam got by through investing in slipper socks of every color, beanies in dozens of patterns, blankets, and hoodies big enough to fit two of him.

But today they weren’t enough.

It was snowing outside – the air colder than Sam thought Lebanon was capable of getting. They had just gotten off of a hunt and thankfully made it back to the bunker before the snowstorm hit. Just in time for Christmas – a holiday that neither of them celebrated anymore.

To Sam’s surprise, the bunker had great heating. The warmth from the radiators filled the entire place and kept it at a comfortable temperature. And yet he still felt as if someone had stuck a piece of ice in his chest.

(Sam told this to Dean, who promptly asked Sam if he should change his name to Anna. Sam dutifully flipped him off and asked why he knew the plot of any Disney princess movie.

Dean didn’t reply.)

Sam tried to tell Dean about the cold more than once.

Dean never listened.

Or if he did, he didn’t care. Just another item on the long, long list titled: “What’s wrong with Sammy?” Nothing to be concerned about, nothing to be talked about.

The bottom line was that the radiator wasn’t helping. He needed to get warm, and he needed it now.

Dean and Cas were somewhere in the bunker. They weren’t bothered by the cold and couldn’t be bothered to ask Sam if he was. But that was okay. Sam was used to dealing with the cold on his own.

Sam resisted the urge to chew on his nails as he contemplated what to do.

He was already wearing enough layers to make an Eskimo feel claustrophobic, what else could he do? (He really should invest in a portable heater...)

A fire.

Sam rolled his eyes. Why hadn’t he thought of that earlier instead of whining and shivering in the corner of his bedroom? Surely the bunker had a fireplace somewhere – one couldn’t imagine the random crap they kept finding, frankly. All he needed to do was find one.

Worst came to worst, he could always turn the oven on and stand in front of it.

It took him a while, but nestled towards the back of the library, Sam found what he was looking for. It was a decent sized fireplace with plushy carpet, a couch, and a couple of arm chairs situated in front. The entire area was covered in dust and cobwebs – Sam doubted that the original Men of Letters ever even used the space. Smoke probably would have attracted attention, after all.

Regardless, there was a snowstorm outside, and the possibility of someone wandering too close and spotting smoke was about as likely as the universe leaving the Winchester brothers alone for once.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts and quickly went to work on the neglected space. First, Sam cleaned out and prepped the chimney. Then, he laid down an ash bed (thanks to Dean for forgetting to clean out the grill from a few days ago), and set up his logs. One match later and red, yellow, and orange flames were licking at the wood, crackling softly.

Sam plopped down on the carpet in front of the hearth and curled into a ball, attempting to soak up as much heat as possible. Soon, his cheeks and nose would become a bright, rosy red – he was sitting a little too close – but didn’t dare move away.

If he could crawl into the fireplace without fear of burning to death, he would.

Sam watched the flames in silence; he couldn’t remember the last time he lit a fire that didn’t use salt and rotted flesh as fuel. The smell that emanated from it was subtle and musky; it so unlike the acrid and cloying stench that wafted into the air when working a job. And when he closed his eyes, yellow and orange kaleidoscopes danced exclusively for him.

The corner of his lip tugged upward. The flames filled him with a sort of serene fascination that he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. It felt...nice.

And yet it still wasn’t enough to defrost him.           

He needed something that would warm him from the inside-out –a hot drink or food. Sam grunted. Cooking would take too long, he figured. No, it would have to be nice, hot glass of... something.

Now, what something should it be?

He made his way to the bunker’s massive kitchen to look his selection. (He already knew that the pickings would be slim. They hadn’t gone to the store in a while.)

Coffee was one option, but they had run out of milk and Sam found that black coffee tasted like motor oil and cigarettes. They had tea, but not a kettle to boil water in. Hot chocolate, maybe? No, same problem: no milk or way to boil it. Did they even have chocolate?

The fridge didn’t look much better. There was a half-drunk water bottle, some off-brand beer that Dean swore was the absolute best, a couple cans of Mr. Pibb, a plastic jug of apple cider –

He stopped.

When he and Dean were too young to be left alone, Sam recalled, they sometimes stayed with Pastor Jim Murphy in Blue Earth, Minnesota. In the winter, or when one of them had a nightmare, Jim would take them into the kitchen, place them on the counter, and whip up the best-tasting apple cider in all of America. (And that was a _fact,_ thank you very much.)

He remembered being handed a steaming cup and holding it close to his tiny body, the heat banishing the wintry chill in his fingers. He remembered Dean laughing at him when Sam burned his tongue. He remembered sitting in front of a fire with his brother and the good Father, selfishly hoping that his dad would wait for the snowstorm to pass before whisking them away.

It’d been decades since he last made the drink, yet the recipe rushed to the front of his mind as if he had learned it yesterday.

It was decided then.

Sam hummed happily as he gathered the ingredients needed: cinnamon, cloves, allspice berries, lemon and orange peels, and maple syrup. He placed the spices and peels into a muslin bag and dropped it into a pot of amber-colored liquid. The cider didn’t take long to heat, thankfully (he needed the warmth _yesterday_ ).

When the cider finished heating, he removed the pot from the flames and set it on an unused burner. He didn’t dare mix it with rum like he usually would. His brain was already screwed up enough at the moment, who knew what even a little alcohol would do to him.

Careful not to scorch his fingers, he poured the cider into the largest mug he could find. (It was still too small to fit in both of his hands).

He wrapped one hand around the ceramic cup, savoring the warmth that spread through his fingers. The smell of cinnamon drifted up to his nose; he took a deep breath and relished in the sweet aroma that filled his lungs.

He lifted the mug up to his lips and took a swig, not caring if it scorched his tongue. The cider, thick, spicy, and sweet at the same time, coated his mouth before flowing down his throat. He could feel the heat traveling down, thawing his bones as it went.

Sam stood for a few moments, letting the cider do its job and warm his body, before pouring the rest of the liquid into a thermos for Dean and Cas. (And he most certainly did _not_ pat himself on the back for being a thoughtful brother.) He walked back to his spot in front of the fire; he sat down and sprawled out like a cat. No one was around and he figured that he was allowed to be comfortable in his own home, regardless of how ridiculous he looked. Dean would rib him for it later, probably, but whatever.

For now, he sat in silence, listening to the crackle of the fire and the soft murmur of Dean and Cas’ conversation somewhere behind him.

His head fell back to rest on the seat of the musty couch. With the cider in hand, fire in front, socks on his feet, and hood drawn close around his face, Sam was almost perfect. The ice in his chest had receded to just a diminutive pinprick of discomfort.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was _something_ still missing, though.

Regardless, the warmth that surrounded him melted away his tension and anxiety. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to finally relax. He slipped slowly into a peaceful slumber, for once his dreams not plagued with memories of colder times.

When he opened his eyes, it was dark. The air was thick and damp, just short of suffocating. Yet it felt... nice. Warm. Safe from the ice and everything that came with it.

Oh. There was a blanket over his head. Sam sat up and pushed the heavy fabric off – only to realize that there was another on top of it.

And another on top of that one.

And another.

And another.

Sam huffed a laugh into the cloth and pushed blankets of all thicknesses, patterns, and textures off of him. After five minutes (or less, Sam sometimes exaggerated – sue him), he finally emerged from his cozy confinement, only to be met with the scene of Dean and Cas huddled together on the couch in front of Sam’s laptop, bickering like usual.

“Like hell we’re watching that!”

“But Dean the reviews say it is a ‘Christmas Classic.’”

“I’m not watching a fucking Hallmark movie, Cas. No, we’re watching _Die Hard_.”

“ _Die Hard_ is a Christmas movie?”

“Hell yes.”

Sam yawned and stretched like an overgrown cat.

“Hey look,” called Dean, a smirk stretched wide on his face when he noticed that Sam had awakened. “Sleeping Beauty’s decided to join the land of the living!”

Sam rolled his eyes but made no attempt to hide his grin. “You’re hilarious,” he deadpanned. He reached over and grabbed his mug. It was still warm, so he couldn’t have been out for long.

Dean simply laughed. Twentieth Century Fox’s fanfare blared with its usual enthusiasm from the laptop speakers. Cas’ protests were ignored (Sam could tell that they were half-hearted to begin with, the angel just happy to be amongst family for once) and the pair settled into the couch to watch their movie.

“Why are there so many blankets on me?” Sam interrupted.

His brother cleared his throat. His eyes flickered over to where Sam sat huddled on the floor, but his head faced the screen, trying (and failing) to appear engrossed in the tale of John McClane. “Well I – you just looked a little cold,” he said. “Figured you could, you know, use a blanket. There are tons all over this place.”

Sam chuckled at his brother’s eloquence and tugged one of the blankets over his head, burying himself deeper in a cocoon of warmth. “Yeah, thanks for that.”

A grunt. “No problem.”

Neither spoke another word. It had been a long while since he and Dean could sit in a silence that wasn’t strained or awkward. Neither brother felt the urge to break it, instead enjoying the calm that washed over them.

Because for once, everything was calm.

Dean didn’t seem to have the urge to kill everything in sight, Cas wasn’t dying, and Sam felt truly warm for the first time in a few years. There was nowhere to go, no big-bad to gank, and for once, in God knows how many years, Sam felt almost...happy.

“Oh!” Dean jumped up suddenly – effectively breaking the silence and thus, Sam’s train of thought – and walked over to his duffel in the corner of the room. “Uh, before I forget, here – catch.” He tossed a lumpy, misshapen package to Sam. It was wrapped in colorful paper and covered in more tape than was necessary.

“What is it?”

Dean snorted. “It’s Brad Pitt in a Speedo – what the hell do you think it is? Open it up,” he urged when Sam made no attempt to move. Cas was watching the two of them now.

Sam took his time unwrapping the gift (no, it wasn’t to make Dean squirm, Sam was far too mature for that sort of childish action).

(No he wasn’t.)

After a minute or two, he finally removed the paper. Two beady black eyes stared up at him, grinning.

It was a moose.

A plush moose, that is. Its fur was soft and a rich chocolate-brown color. The words “WARM BUDDY” were embroidered into the paw and if Sam pressed the middle, a faint crinkling sound could be heard.

Dean’s voice shocked him out of his thoughts. “Cas and I picked it out. It, uh – it warms up,” he said. “The moose’s got a little pack that you can stick in the microwave – we don’t have a microwave but, I mean, we can always get one. And uh – I don’t know I just thought, you hate the cold and with everything that’s happened: what the hell, right?”

Sam rolled the toy in his hands.

Dean bought him a stuffed animal – not just any stuffed animal: one that heated up.

Which meant that Dean knew about the cold.

Which meant that Dean had listened to Sam when he had complained about the cold.

He’d _listened_. He’d _cared._

Sam looked up at his brother who was watching him in silence with wide eyes and stiff arms. He was waiting for Sam to speak, throw the moose, call him an idiot, _something_.

Sam smiled and the tension in Dean’s shoulders dissolved into nothing.

He placed the stuffed toy on his lap and tucked it into the blankets.  

“Thanks, guys.” He grabbed his mug again and took a swig. He let the drink flow over his tongue a few times before he swallowed. Cas smiled down at him and nodded.

“Merry Christmas, Sammy,” Dean murmured.

Christmas. It was Christmas Eve and there was no tree, no lights, no pretty wrapped presents waiting to be eagerly shredded, and no eggnog. Tomorrow they would once again worry about the inevitable train-wreck that was Dean’s Mark, Cas’ fading grace, and whatever else the universe tried to throw at them.

But tonight there was Netflix, a fire, apple cider, and a stuffed moose.

Sam smiled into his mug. “Yeah. Merry Christmas, Dean.”


End file.
